James Chase - I Would Rather Stay Poor

Iris started to say something, then stopped.

‘Now look,’ Travers said, ‘I have no real proof, but I have a lead, and Easton and the sheriff so far haven’t this lead. I’m thinking of you and me and the reward. This man Acres typed a letter to Alice. It was typed on a standard Remington with two defective letters: the r and the v are slightly out of alignment. I want to find out if the bank has such a machine. It’s my guess it has. If it has, I then want to find out if Calvin ever owned a fawn, belted overcoat. If he has owned one, then I guess I’ve got enough on him to make an arrest. Then there is the payroll. Where is it? He must have hidden it somewhere. He can’t have moved it out of town. He’s forced to sit on it… but where?’

‘I still don’t believe a word of this,’ Iris said, but Travers could see she was shaken. ‘You may as well know, Ken: I’m taking Alice’s place. I’m starting work tomorrow.’

Travers twisted around in his seat to stare at her.

‘Oh no, you’re not! You’re not working for Calvin! You’re not…’ He stopped short, seeing the angry flush rise to her face. Controlling his voice, he went on, ‘What about Dix? You leaving him?’

‘Yes… Mr. Calvin asked me to help him. The money’s better and I’m going to.’

‘But after what I’ve told you, honey, you wouldn’t want to work for him, would you?’

‘Let’s go home. Nothing you have said so far has convinced me you’re right. I’m going to work for Dave Calvin and that’s the end of it.’

Travers’s mind worked fast. He knew Iris well enough to realise that the more pressure he put on her the more obstinate she would become.

‘All right, then work for him if you must, but when you walk into the bank tomorrow morning, look at the typewriter. If it is a standard Remington, you’ll know what I’ve been saying isn’t so cockeyed. You’ll probably be using the machine, see if the letters r and v are out of alignment. That’s all I ask. Check the typewriter and if it isn’t a Remington, I’ll admit I’m way off the beam.’

‘All right,’ Iris said. ‘I’ll do it, but I’m quite sure even if it is a Remington, Dave Calvin has nothing to do with this robbery.’

Travers shrugged his shoulders. He drove the car fast to the highway. He was a little deflated, but still convinced he was right. Neither of them said anything until Travers pulled up outside the rooming-house. The time was now half past one.

‘Good night, Ken,’ Iris said stiffly as she made to get out of the car.

Travers sipped his arm around her and pulled her to him.

‘Don’t let’s quarrel, honey,’ he said. ‘I may be wrong, but if I’m not, it’s going to be all right between us, isn’t it?’

‘I’m thinking of Kit,’ Iris said. ‘Oh, Ken, even if you are right… I do hope you’re not! I wouldn’t want that money, knowing how unhappy Kit would be… but I’m sure you’re wrong.’

Travers kissed her. Breaking away, Iris got out of the car and ran up the drive towards the house.

She paused at the front door, listening to Travers driving away, then she unlocked the door and entered the dark hall. She went silently up to her bedroom. She was surprised to see a light coming from under her door. Turning the handle, she walked in.

Kit was sitting in an armchair, smoking. Her face was pale and her brown eyes were unnaturally bright. Iris paused in the doorway to stare at her.

‘Why, Kit! Why aren’t you in bed?’

‘I wanted to talk to you,’ Kit said. ‘Come in and shut the door.’

Iris shut the door and went over to sit on the bed.

‘Dave tells me you are going to work at the bank,’ Kit said. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

Her cold, hostile voice startled Iris.

‘You weren’t there when he asked me. I — I thought he had told you,’ Iris said. ‘Why? You don’t mind, do you?’

‘Yes, I mind. You’re only a kid. I don’t want you to be exposed to Dave’s charm.’

Iris felt her face grow hot.

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Don’t you?’ Kit’s bleak eyes frightened her. ‘I think you do. I’m going to marry him. I’m twice your age. I’m not anything like as pretty as you. The less you see of him, the better it will be for me.’

‘Kit!’ Iris jumped to her feet ‘You don’t know what you’re saying?’

‘You mean I’m drunk?’ Kit smiled bitterly. ‘I guess I am.’ She passed her hand across her eyes. ‘You’re not going to work for Dave. Do you understand? I forbid it.’

There was a long pause, then Iris said quietly and steadily. ‘I’m sorry, but I am. It’s all arranged. It’s a good job and I need the money. I’m sure you don’t know what you are saying. Please go to bed.’

Kit remained motionless. Her head throbbed. Her brain felt as if it were in a covering of cotton wool. She wished now she hadn’t had that last drink.

‘Kit… it’s late. Please go to bed,’ Iris said.

Unsteadily, Kit got to her feet.

‘All right, you poor little fool,’ she said, her words slurred, ‘then work for him if you want to, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. I don’t care… I don’t care a damn what happens to him or to you or to me,’ and lurching a little, she went out of the room.

Iris listened to her mother’s stumbling steps as she climbed the stairs. She felt a cold chill crawl up her spine, and involuntarily, she shivered.

A little after six o’clock the following morning, Kit woke with a start. She became aware that someone was tapping softly and persistently on her door.

She half sat up. Her head felt heavy and her eyes burned. She looked towards the bedside clock as she called out, ‘Who is it?’

‘Dave! Open up! I’ve got to talk to you.’ Calvin’s voice was pitched low. There was a note of urgency in it that alerted her.

She threw off the bedclothes, snatched up a wrap and struggled into it as she crossed the room and unlocked the door.

Calvin, his face set, a cold, bleak expression in his eyes, came in and shut the door.

‘What is it?’ she demanded, moving away from him. She picked up a comb from the dressing-table and ran it through her hair. ‘What is it?’

‘I tried to get you last night,’ he snarled, ‘but you were so drunk you didn’t hear me knocking.’

‘What is it?’ she repeated. She stared at herself in the mirror, seeing the shadows under her eyes and the gaunt tightness of her skin. She grimaced and looked away.

‘Trouble.’ He paused, then went on, ‘Have you a typewriter?’

She stared at him, startled. Her head was beginning to ache.

‘A typewriter? Yes… why?’

‘Where is it?’

She motioned to where a battered portable stood against the wall. He picked it up, rested it on the bed and lifted the lid. It was an old Smith Corona.

‘Does it work?’

‘Yes… What is all this?’

‘I wrote that damned letter to Alice on the bank’s typewriter. The police have found out it was written on a standard Remington with faulty letters. If they find the machine, we’re in a hell of a jam.’

She stiffened, her eyes growing large.

‘You and your fool-proof plan!’ she said, her voice going shrill. ‘Now what are you going to do?’

‘Keep your voice down! I’ll get rid of the Remington and use this.’ He nodded to the portable. ‘If they ask, I’ll tell them I found the machine in the bank. Lamb’s dying and can’t be questioned. Alice can’t answer questions either.’

‘How will you get rid of the Remington?’

‘I’ll hide it in the vault.’

She relaxed a little.

‘Then take the portable and get out!’